A city worth saving
by wassersaeufer
Summary: In the gigantic city of King's Landing, only one man stands between the people and those preying upon them: The Direwolf. But when he dies, someone has to take up the mantle and keep on fighting.
1. 1 The Direwolf - Ned Stark

_Well, the start of another AU of mine. I don't think I will ever end it, but who knows. I will add more characters over time, when they make their debut, and I have so far no idea where this will go. But well, I'm having fun with it and I hope you too will do so._ _The chapters will not necessarily be in chronological order, I will write them how my muse will struck me, so bear with me please._

* * *

**1. The Direwolf - Ned Stark**

King's Landing. A city of uncounted millions. A city of horror and sin and madness. Gangs in the slums, crime in court, corruption in city council. Drug money, dirty, bloody money, going from hand to hand until it lands in the bank accounts of the monsters. Daily young, bright people die and old, broken people wither away. Rape, murder, theft, robbery, violence and madness.

Cold, uncaring towers of steel and beton rising up in the air as if they could rise out of the horror they are coming from. In the bars and taverns men and women alike are drinking away their sorrows, while in the high end establishments coke is sniffed out of the navel of an underaged prostitue before vomiting out champagner worth a new suit into a toilet decorated with silver and gold. In the alleys orphans and junkies freeze to death, pimps beating their women nearly to death, uncaring police officers walking past.

It was sickening.

From his city loft he could see most of the inner city. It would have been a very good refugee for any one else, safe and high up in the air, clean and homely. He had to think Cat for the comfort he had in this four walls, all the decor was there because she had insisted on it. She had said that otherwise it wouldn't be a home.

And it wasn't one.

Not for him.

It was his office away from the office. The other office.

Other men in his position, other multi billion dollar heavy men owning other corporations, would use such a loft as an escape place. Or a place to bring the secretary to fuck while the wife is at home with the kids waiting while the husband works overtime. Not him.

Not Eddard Stark.

Not boring, brooding, weak Ned Stark.

Not only did he love his wife, Cat, way too much for such a thing, this loft had another use. It was his place to hide away secrets, yes. But not such secrets as other men.

"Yes, I know...", he softly said into the telephone, his voice heavy with caring and tenderness. As if he was speaking to a petite animal, trying to shooth it. "Cat... say the kids I love them... I'll be home at the weekend." A short pause, then he added. "I love you too."

There was a moment of silence, before he closed the phone and put it down onto the nightstand. He took another few minutes for himself to set his mind at ease, to push away the thoughts of his family, of his children who he saw way to seldom and of the warm bed with Cat in it. Then, finally, he stood up from the bed he had sat on, a cold bed, and made his way to the secret compartment he had build into one of the walls.

It slid open without a single sound and revealed his arsenal.

Gauntlets with claws. Mask with sensory adjustments for eyes and ears. Body armor. Utility belt.

With routined movements he put on the undershirt and pants, made of a fine kevlar weave. His mind wandered while he dressed with movements which spoke of years of experience and routine. His mind wandered to the death of his oldest friend, Robert, whose death had plunged the city into chaos once more. The major dead and hundreds of different men claiming to be the killer. The Lannisters grabbing for power in city hall. The Greyjoys grabbing for power in the shadows. The Baratheon brothers going at each other. And people getting killed between all this.

He felt sick to the stomach.

Sometimes he felt like he was fighting a tidal wave with his fists only. Perhaps he was.

* * *

Ilyn Payne was a killer. Not a murderer, but a professional killer. A very good one at that. Neither pride nor arrogance nor greed were failings of him. His preferred way of killing was the knife, but he had no qualms using any other way too. When his new boss demanded the death of the Direwolf, he delivered.

He delivered by blowing up an entire city block, burying the so called protector of the people under the rubble.

* * *

Catelyn Stark woke up when her phone rang. Immediately she was wide awake. A feeling of dread overcame her, like always when the phone rang. Still she grabbed it and sat up while doing so. "Yes?"

She listened to the voice on the other side of the line. Finally she said: "Yes... Yes I understand. Thank you."

With her face ashen she put down the phone, remaining sitting upright for several moments. Then she broke down and screamed.


	2. 2 Jon Snow

**2. Jon Snow**

He was the first to know. He had always been the first to know everything. He had understood why Theon had to live with them before Robb or Sansa or even his aunt Cately understood. He had found out about the secret of his uncle before Robb had been told. He had known about Joffrey being bad for Sansa before she herself had seen it. Sometimes it was good. Sometimes it was a curse.

When he had left the Winterfell estate to live in a flat on his own he had tried to get away from all this, away from the fear of never seing his uncle again, away from the secrets and the lies. It had worked for exactly three days, before he had called Robb and asked if everything was alright.

It got better when he was accepted at the academy, though only barely. He met new friends and stepped out of the shadow of his mysterious father and his immense uncle. And right when he thought he was away from it all... he got pulled back into it.

It was, sort of, the fault of Ygritte. Beautiful, spunky, spitefull Ygritte who sold her body for the next shot. His colleagues called her a whore and used her like trash, throwing her away after using her, laughing at her. He wanted to help her so desperately that he got into a shouting match with his superior officer and got nearly thrown from the force. So he threw caution into the wind and asked his uncle for help.

* * *

He was in his apartment when he heard of it.

Most nights he did not sleep and kept himself upright with energy drinks, coffee and a strict diet of pizza and junk food. He had work to do, he could not sleep. Several chat windows are open all the time, several phones ringing often, information hoarded from dozens of sources.

He had just finished a long phone conversation with one of his informants, this one a young street orphan called Hot Pie, when a small light goes off and one of his three computer screens begins to blink in an alarm red.

"Oh shit...", he whispered breathlessly, his mind already working at high alert, trying to find out what was wrong with his uncle. It was the safety line, the last resort. A small biomonitor was build into his uncles equipment and Jon got the feed from it, in case something drastic happens. And something drastic did happen.

He stares at the computer screen for nearly half an hour, not moving an inch, after the line has gone flat. After he had checked the sources. After he had called Sam and told him to inform him as soon as there are news. When his yellow phone rings, the one he uses to get Sam's calls, he takes it without a single sound.

Sam only says: _"I'm sorry."_

Then the line went dead again.

Moving like a robot he puts the small mobile down, next to the other thirteen. Then, still not raising his gaze from the screen, he takes his headset and put's it back onto his head, dialing the number of his uncle's and aunt's home adress.

It rings once, then twice, then he hears his aunt. _"Yes?"_

"Uncle Catelyn... It's me... Jon..." He swallows once, then he hesitates. How could he... He decides to push onwards and just do it. "There was an incident." A pause. Then he adds: "I'm sorry."

There is silence on the line for a long time. Finally he asks: "Are you still there aunt Catelyn?"

_"Yes."_

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

_"Yes I understand. Thank you."_

He cuts the line at that point.

It is that position, staring at the screen, in which Val and Sam find him the next morning.


	3. 3 Stannis Baratheon

**3. Stannis Baratheon**

Live a little. Have fun. Forget your work. Gods, you're so dull.

The memories hit him like a sledgehammer as he was about to shave. He stopped in the middle of the motion and stared at his reflection. What was it that brought up such memories? The cologne, a gift from Robert to his last nameday? The shaving, something that Robert had showed him how to do? He had no idea.

Live a little. Have fun.

That's what his brother had always told him. To live. To have fun. To enjoy life. He snorted and felt the need to hit something. Somethat that could hit back. As there was nothing there to fight back, he instead broke the mirror with his fist.

His teeth clenched, nothing unusual there, he watched his blood drop down into the sink, dropping into the water and mixing with the shaving cream already there. He doesn't blink. He doesn't move. He just watches. It doesn't even hurt, not really, only a numb feeling in his hand is there. His whole body feels... numb.

"Stannis?"

It is Asha standing in the door, dressed in one of his dark shirts way too big for her. Most likely nothing underneath. He don't know if he is happy about her being there. He is at least not uncomfortable with the idea. That is enough for now. Without her the apartment is too cold. Now it is only a bit cold.

He turns his head slightly towards her. Otherwise he didn't react at all. He clenches his teeth.

For a few moments they look at each other, before she steps forward and begins to clean his hand, pulling out the glas from the wound and then binding it. She doesn't speak while doing so and he is thankful for that.

* * *

It is another mind numbing, horrible day. Two doctors have practically killed a young mother, turned her practically into trash because of carelesness. They are guilty, he knows it. They know it. Everyone knows it. And still they will walk. Because the evidence is suddenly gone. Because witnesses change their statements. Because the copy of the original record he has to disallow in court because of a decision another judge had made several years ago in another trial.

They will walk away with their pockets full of money and free and a young woman will slowly wither away in a coma because these two men cared more about boning the nurse or sniffing coke in an expensive club than about their patients.

He clenches his teeth so hard his jaw hurts.

Last week he had to let a child molester walk away because key evidence, the small boy's shoe, was found in the mans car without a warrant. Several month's ago the witnesses in a murder trial vanished and the son of a local night club owner walked free despite him already confessing raping and murdering the woman.

It is long past time to go home, everyone else had done so, and he still sat in his office, staring at the wall. Robert was dead. Dead like their parents. Renly was away, gods know's where he had gone off to. And he was sitting here, judge Stannis Baratheon, helpless to do his duty. To do what was right. To do the law.

Sometimes he wished the Direwolf would snap and kill them all. It was useless to wish such things, the Direwolf was dead. There was a small shrine to him in the worst part of town, fiercely protected by the local street kids and slummers and even a few gang-bangers. He had thrown the man into prison immediately if he ever had the chance to do so, even if he thought the man had the right idea.

But because something is just, something isn't necessarily right. Because law and justice are two different things.

He knew. He served the law. He knew the different better than anyone else.

The lights are off in his office and the only illumination comes from the moon shining through his window. The shadows are playing tricks on his mind and he can nearly see Robert standing there, laughing at him and calling him dull and telling him to live for once. Again he feels the urge to hit something.

This time he grabbed his coat and went out looking for something that hit's back.

* * *

Stannis had been a good boxer on college and university. He had kept in shape and was easily able to fight off a single ganger, even defeating him. Two he also could manage. But six? Or seven? No, not nearly as easily.

He's laying on the ground and his whole body hurts, feet are kicking at him again and again and someone spits at him. They are calling him names but doesn't hear them, all he knows it, that at least he done his duty. There are worse things than that.

And then, suddenly, they don't hit and kick him anymore and one of them screams in pain, only to be silenced quickly. More screaming, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, curses and a weapon going off. He manages to push himself upwards, one of his arms is most likely broken he notices, and tries to see through his blurry vision.

There is something. Or someone. Fighting the thugs.

Two of them are on the ground already, another is holding his arm. Dislocated? Looks like it. The weapon which had been fired a moment ago lies on the ground before the young man, useless now. And the person fighting the thugs is... something else.

It is awe inspiring. It is frightening.

It is horrible to watch.

He, or she, doesn't really look human. Under a dark, dirty hood is hidden a mask of fleshy leather, covering the face completely, bringing up memories of movies like Texas Chainsaw Massacre or the like. The limbs are too frail, too thin, and they move in ways limbs should not be able to move without bein dislocated. Yet still...

A jaw is broken. An armbone is splintered. A swung iron pipe is dodge and with a swift kick a knee is ruined. Finally there are seven young man laying on the ground, moaning and groaning in pain. Stannis can barely believe his eyes. Without even a weapon, this guy had not only fought against them, he had crushed them.

"Tell the Red Woman that there will be no more Red Meth in the slums. Tell your friends too."

The voice is raspy and throaty, a device to warp the voice hidden in the mask? Most likely. Stannis manages to get to his feet, making a step towards the man in the cowl and the rags. Yet suddenly he turns towards him and is suddenly directly in front of him. He can smell sewer and filth and it hits him so hard that he wants to retch.

"And you, Judge Baratheon, should take another route home."

Again he clenches his teeth. And then he asks: "How do you know who I am?"

The man in the cowl stares at him with unseen eyes, unnerving him and to be honest, Stannis had never been so afraid in all his live. Yet still he stands there and does not turn away his gaze, he only scowls and stands his ground.

"I know many things. You are Stannis Baratheon, 37 years old, divorced, one daughter he sees every two weekends, lives alone, has an affair with Asha Greyjoy. Judge at city court, one of the last good ones." A short pause. "And stupid. Brave but stupid."

Then he is hit in the face and blacks out.

* * *

When he wakes up again he is in a hospital bed. It is night. Still? Or again? He can't say. On the hospital chair in the corner is a small teddy bear, the one he had given Shireen to her third birthday. And on his night table a few get well soon cards. As well as a single mobile phone, a filthy one, attached to one of the cards.

He grabs it and though he knows that mobiles are forbidden in a hospital, he starts it. The pin is written on the card in a scribbly hand writing, as well as a single phone number. He hesitates for a second, then he dials it.

For a second he hears nothing, then someone picks up the phone. A raspy breathing could be heard.

_"Stannis Baratheon. You are holding a secure mobile phone in your hands. Use only that one to contact me. I will use it to contact you. Do nothing else with it."_

"Why have you done that? Why have you given me this phone? And who are you?"

_"I am the Freak. It rhymes with... nothing."_

* * *

_This turned out completely different from what I had intendet in the beginning. Well, such is life._


	4. 4 Sandor Clegane

_Just a small scene I thought would be hillarious. Because if Ned Stark is sort of like Batman, then his children will most likely become sort of Robin. And that leads us to this..._

* * *

**4. Sandor Clegane**

Driving around the little shit that was his boss' son was a shitty job. But it paid the bills and it paid them well. And it was better than driving taxi and being pestered about his face. Because then he would lie and tell them some shit about being in the war or something else and some people would give him a higher tip. Most wouldn't. And anyway, this way he did not have to deal with vomit in his car or some useless chit chat.

"Drive the boy where he want's, keep your mouth shut about everything and keep the boy out of trouble."

That had been what Tywin fucking Lannister had told him when he had started the job and though it was Cersei Baratheon-Lannister whose name was written under his paid his pay checks, it was in essence the money of the old lion which he used to buy his groceries.

The driving was the easy part. Keeping the mouth shut he was good at too, he had no one to talk too anyway. But keeping the boy out of trouble.. that was the problem.

Because the little shit was not only a spoiled brat, he was also high on some shit most of the time and dumb as fuck. And he usually got grabby with his girls. Always another girl than before. Dark haired ones, fair haired ones, redheads, dark skin, mocha-coloures skin, caucasian, it didn't really matter, Joffrey Baratheon-Lannister had only one type: Stupid and weak.

When Sandor had driven the boy to the Stark-Residence for the first time, he felt a bit bad about opening the door and allowing Sansa Stark and her boyfriend into the car. He knew that he would have to drink a whole bottle of scotch to forget the face of the girl with a split lip or a black eye or something that evening.

When she squeled on the way back from the movie theater he knew that Joffrey had gotten grabby. Most likely the little shit had sniffed a bit of snow during the movie and was now up for some redhead on his cock. Sandor bit the innard of his mouth and turned up the volume of the stereo.

Upon arriving at Winterfell, the old Stark-Residence, he felt horrible to the stomach. Sansa Stark seemed to be a decent girl and did not deserve such a horrible boyfriend. He got out of the car and opened the door for her to leave the limousine, already imagining her with her hair in a mess, her make-up ruined by her tears and her dress torn.

However she appeared to be rather... smug. "Joffrey, I break up with you", she said in a matter of factly tone, then turning towards Sandor. "You should get a better job."

And with that she strolled away with a grace that seemed unnatural for a woman of her age. Mouth agape Sandor could do nothing else but stare at her retreating back. For several moments he had the feeling as if the world had turned on it's head. And when he took a look at the interior of the backroom... He broke out in laughter immediately upon seeing the beaten up form of Joffrey fucking Baratheon dickhead Lannister.

Seems the little bird had claws.

It was after he drove the little shit to the hospital to get his broken nose, bruised ribs and concussion treated, that he told Cersei Lannister who was hovering at her sons bedside and screaming at the hospital staff like a banshee: "I quit."

* * *

_This scene takes place before the other chapters, so during this time Ned Stark is still alive. Not that it really matters though._


End file.
